Thursday, January 11, 2007

The Important Things, Like Family...and Mexicans

Mr. Scoop was impatient. He went ahead and rented not one, but two Mexicans and put them to work cleaning our new abode. By rented, I mean threatened them with deportation and a broken whiskey bottle smile. Despite the loveliness of the new digs, you'd be surprised about the number of decrepit tenements and homeless shelters in the near vicinity. Mr. Scoop cuts an imposing figure, which made it easy to wrangle up semi-skilled, desperate labor on short notice.

They even gave us turn down service on our beds. Isn't that sweet?

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I never really did get a chance to talk about how Christmas went.

"Mostly uneventful", I think, might be the best way to describe it. Or perhaps, "Nothing unexpected".

I went to see Mom. That was good. But mom's husband is sort of a degenerate alcoholic (I know, I know, it's like I'm calling the kettle black, but work with me here). So that was less good. He mostly lives on the couch and passes his days floating in and out of lucid moments with TNT or USA networks on in the background as the soundtrack to his wasted retirement. He can actually sit through entire episodes of "Charmed". I blame the cheap bourbon.

His Christmas present to me was to not drunkenly ramble at me, much.

I bought him a sweater. From Sears.

So, Christmas began with waking up at my mother's in the throes of a hangover brought on by mixing sake with Chardonnay over the course of an evening trying to convince my mother that divorcing her husband didn't neccessarily mean moving in with my grandfather and fulfilling his prophecy that she would only ever amount to "being a comfort to him in his old age". Her husband spent most of Christmas passed out on the couch and smelling of urine, a bottle of Ten High whiskey tucked under his head like a pillow, while a marathon of "Crossing Jordan" blared from the tv in the living room. Mom dutifully made a beautiful beef tenderloin that she served with a port wine and shallot reduction. Hubby woke up in time to insist that he say grace; it involved something about his fallen Marine buddies, "zips on the perimeter" and the baby Jesus. After that we all ate in strained semi-silence, ocassionally making small talk about how much we enjoyed the beef. Then he returned himself to the couch and consumed boilermakers until he puked on the cat.

Fun was had by some.

My Christmas present from my mom was a wine fridge and Mom is delivering it to me this weekend with a bonus rack of lamb. So, that's good.

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6 comments:

Lightning Bug's Butt said...

Ten High! Drank some on Tuesday. Honest to God.

For my money, it's the finest bourbon on the planet.

Tony said...

A testament to the superiority of wimmen... you post far more frequently (and coherently) than mr scoop on his bloggy thing. Why cook with port when you can drink it?

Ari said...

I love this post. We have more in common than I once knew.

Noctivigant said...

Scoop... imposing?! ... well, I guess if I were a drunken midget mexican with no wrestling skills he might appear a bit, um... creepy, maybe even lecherous... but nothing even close to resembling something that approaches imposing. Unless, by imposing, you are refering to the practice of cringing, covering your face with both arms and screaming in a high-pitched voice "Please! Not the face!".

... I'm just sayin' ...

Violet said...

Oooohhh.... Sake and Chardonnay? That doesn't sound good.

But doesn't puking on the cat always just make the holiday?

Lance Manion said...

Puking on the cat is damned Christmas miracle. Especially when you think about how the cat is eventually going to clean itself. Still, the wine fridge is a nice gift.